Dragon's Den
by Symmet
Summary: I found an old Hobbit/Sherlock crossover fic doodle that I did. Um... Technically my first fanfiction ever. The one where the dragon starts to feel strange. He may slowly realize this thief is not as unknown as he originally believed.
1. The Thief

Smaug was having a good dream. He doesn't remember it now, of course, because it was ruined by that sudden insertion in which a stout man-being called out to him and cut at him with a blade that stung and who would not flee even at his charmspeak command, but he was sure it had been overly pleasant before that. Then he briefly dozed before his great senses caught something that woke him wide awake. It was the air.

Fresh air. Strange air.

Air not from the mountain. He glared at a small hole that had been knocked in many many years ago, when he had settled too quickly and the stone had crumbled at a clumsy touch of a wing. He had never liked that hole, but kept it around because it reminded him of being wrong when he got too arrogant.

He thought he'd very much like to cover it up now if it was the reason his dreams had been disturbed - that and the soft knocking from above he occasionally thought he had heard. He stretched luxuriously, to sniff that air and learn of it.

that was when he knew the cup was gone.

Thieves! Fire! Murder! The audacity and extreme arrogance! What fools would dare to steal from him!? This had happened once or twice long, long ago when he first settled in the Mountain, and then taught the stealers a lesson - which he promptly made clear, boiled within their skulls and turned to festering ash. This mountain and all within it was his! None should be so incompetent that they would think to steal from him! He would have screamed, but the fire that raged from his mouth and stung the walls was all he could do not to collapse the place around him. If it killed the thieves he would do it with out a doubt. But he knew that they would be long gone from here. Without a thought, he raced from his nest and through the palace roaring with a fury unspeakable - out into the open air, which was definitely the same scent he had caught from within. He would find this intruder.

His roars thrummed through the wind and he felt the tiniest pleasure at this - they would hear this and surely run. Or quake and cower. It didn't matter which. He would find them.

From the air jets of flame scorched through his mouth to the earth below, marking his territory, seeking his prey, hoping to flush them out and into his grip. His eyes caught everything, and if he were not so furious, he would have liked to compare how the world had changed since last he woke.

But he was furious, and his prey had yet to reveal themselves. He belched fire and smoke upon the mountain side but at least could see no signs of travel - and that would make it easier to tell from whence they came once he did, and how they got in.

He came to the other side from the North, again washing the earth in flame. For a second he thought - but then there are screams of fear and the wretched smell of burning mane - and he swoops upon some ponies that have broken from their ropes, each running off with no thoughts of the others.

He follows the largest group of them screaming and burning the flame as they gallop off, taking pleasure in the pursuit, for the poor beasts are his only reward for now, it seems. He kills most and eats some of them them - two of which are burnt beyond consumption and the other too far and insignificant to be of importance.

He would have guessed men had come from the river, from the man-town of Esgaroth, for the ponies resembled a particular breed that was caught long ago in the wild hills there, and certain packs and saddles, though unfamiliar in some ways were also made of the same materials that had grown in the lake valley long ago.

Except 14 men would not have likely ridden there on ponies.  
And men were not as often stupid enough to be tempted to steal treasure from a dragon - unless they were suddenly put in it's presence, faced with the sheer beauty of the wealth. But the packs and camps spoke otherwise, dotted about as if searching for something - a way in, and since the trail into his lair was still not obvious nor found, it meant it had been done deliberately. It had taken time and thought.

Most men would not be stupid enough to plan such a thing. Or perhaps too stupid to know how.  
Of course, they would also be stupid enough to give supplies to those stupid enough to plan such a thing.

That being dwarrows.

Still, as he hunted the length of the mountain he came up with a frustratingly small amount of clues - most of which he'd already deduced. From the smoking remains of his wrath he learned from the camps that the visitors had been over ten in number, and smaller, as the indentations of their sleeping places suggested, as well as workers of fire, as the camp fires had been tended in a way that he could only describe as dwarvish.

When dawn finally rested on his scales, he abandoned his work, knowing full well that he had gleaned all the knowledge he could.

With no sign of the intruders he had one plan - return to his lair. Regain his strength. Travel to the laketown. Burn and pillage until some one told him where and who and when and how. Then raze it until only smoke and steam remained.

And of course, lastly, regarding the the thieves themselves...

He would find them and burn the heart right out of them.

In the lair his ruby glow cast upon his hoard, and he curled down to wait.

After all, a thief of 14 would hardly be satisfied with the small cup, and dwarrows, well.

Their gold greed rivaled that of the dragons.  
He lowered his eyelids, and fell silent.

And waited.

He did not have to wait long.


	2. The Hoard

While he waited, he came to the uncomfortable conclusion that the thief was not a dwarf. Or perhaps not entirely dwarf (the scent of dwarves was certainly upon them, and the air had grown far too stale while he had been out hunting). There was a strange unfamiliar scent about them.

Despite himself, he was intrigued.

He waited very long, he thought, and yet very shortly.

Too long because he was growing bored.  
Too short because only a fool would venture down here so soon after hearing his ruckus - and certainly only the lake town people would not know of his rampage - he had stayed clear of their sights after deciding to visit. Wouldn't do to have them prepared, after all. Not that they posed any threat - rather, it would be very unsatisfactory if he came and they had already left.

Then, suddenly the softest scuffle, and he heard the intake of breath - ah, interesting… this thief definitely smelled unfamiliar. He called out wickedly to the hidden vandal, "Well, thief! I smell and feel your air! Come along! There is plenty and enough to spare!"

Whomever the thief was, he was not so stupid as to do what the dragon wished. Which was fine. It was all fine.

He called out again, " Oh, do not leave, I am bored, and as no doubt you heard, your actions roused me."

Came from the entrance a small voice, "Roused your temper I suppose you mean."

He chuckled, although in his heart there was blackness and hatred.

"Yes, that was ultimately foolish of you, wasn't it?"

A steadying breath, and the thief contented, "I suppose it rather was. But in my defense I was not prepared for Smaug the Tremendous in his entirety."

Despite himself, something in his soul seems to waken, some far off feeling of long ago. Some unremembered dream.

Then he's thinking of the unpleasant man from his dream earlier, with the blade that bit his skin and words that called Smaug strange things. The man kept calling him a machine, he thinks. Perhaps the dream had been good - he'd been so covered in jewels and treasure he resembled a living contraption of the dwarves, of Aulë's creation, and Eru Ilúvatar life grace.

"You have nice manners for a thief and a liar." He rumbles calmly. "You seem familiar of my name, but I don't seem to remember smelling you before. Who are you and where do you hail from?"

It wasn't that he didn't seem to remember smelling the thief's race, but that he never had. Otherwise he wouldn't have really pressed for his name, and just deduced it himself.

"I am he that walks unseen." The creature cried shortly, "I am the clue-finder, the web-cutter, the stinging fly. I was chosen for the lucky number."

Smaug does his best to sneer out the grin that had been creeping over his face, "Lovely titles!" he calls, "but lucky numbers don't always come off."

"I am he that buries his friends alive." Quietly calls the invisible creature, and Smaug feels something sharp and painful twist in his gut, but he knows not why.

"I am he that buries his friends alive and drowns them and draws them out alive again from the water. I came from the end of a bag, though no bag went over me."

"those don't sound so creditable", He scoffs, trying to displace the nervousness this thief inspires. Like something he ought to remember, but can't. It's frustrating.

It's important.

"I am the friend of bears and guest of eagles. I am ring-winner and Luck-wearer; and I am Barrel-rider!" comes the final call, and the thief sounds pleased.

Smaug is feeling ridiculously pleased, too, but he barely touches upon it, "That's better!" he says, "But don't let your imagination run away with you!"

Still. It's a fun little puzzle, even if half of it would never make sense out of context - which this certainly fits as.

Still. He called out to the thief and let him know that he knew just enough.

The thief is quiet and in shock.

"Dwarrows..?" He repeats cautiously, as if unfamiliar with the word.  
Ah, interesting. This thief was certainly not a dwarf, for he did not appear to be very familiar with them.

"You may better know them as Dwarves, I suppose," and could not help the giddy delight at the thief's small gasp.

Silence. He's almost thinking the thief isn't as interesting as he seemed when, suddenly…

"how did you know?" comes the whisper. He controls his features, and does not grin. There is an almost awe in that voice - but not the kind he is used to. Perhaps it is less awe and more wonder.

And many would not know the difference, but wonder is a thing of joy.

And rarely did any behold him in joyful awe.

He was not sure. He would like to think it to be wonder.  
He is almost certainly sure that the thief ventured closer, now.  
Charmspeak can have that effect.

He explains, but doesn't reveal it all, and when he finishes, the thief is silent again. And, to his actual surprise, "That's brilliant." there. in that voice.

There is wonder and respect and Smaug does not show his delight. Tries. At least manages not to preen.

Feels warmth unlike his inner fire spread across his chest. And he remembers how dragon eggs look - as if stars caught in glass - and remembers in his youth how he had laid his neck upon one and felt the warmth that danced in his bones and pulsed in his heart, made him ache to fly and curl up closer to it all at once.

Of course, he had promptly been shooed away from the nesting grounds, then, but the memory remained.

This is something like that.

Of course, the thief seems to realize at the same moment that he does what is happening - that they are rather surprising each other to say the least.

Of course, the their does not know that he has endeared himself to the dragon, so it is perhaps with that thought in mind that Smaug senses the sudden shift in the conversation.

As if the thief has taken a small, measured step back.

Sharply, more sharply than is smart, at least, when confronting a fearful creature, Smaug snaps, "Where are you going?"

A small, nervous voice comes, though from where Smaug knows not.  
"I am thinking it best to retreat before your vast magnificence…"


	3. The Dragon

"You think I'll just let you leave?" He would have made the question more eloquent, but if the thief was daft enough to believe such a notion in the first place, it would likely not understand.

"You blame me for trying?" said the creature, as if it was actually curious as to whether Smaug did. He knew that this in itself meant that if he did blame the thief for it, he was stupider than he impressed, as who wouldn't attempt to flee his mighty wrath? He didn't really like that.

"Your chances are slim" He said instead.

"Yeah," agreed the invisible vandal, "Bit not good."

It is the most peculiar feeling for a dragon to turn to ice. Usually they register the oddness of their insides feeling as if they've gone backwards before they die, as they only ever experience such things from great and terrible magic wielders.

But this thief has spoken no such spells (and indeed, for something to be powerful enough to turn Smaug to ice and kill him, a great chant would need to be taken up), and Smaug registers an unfortunate disconnect between the creeping chill in his chest and the heat from his scales that scalds the very earth he lies upon.

He has never been frozen before, but Smaug thinks the feeling inside him must be something like that. He hisses, but he doesn't know why, and swings his head to and fro, hoping to catch sight of the thief, as something anxious and unknown bubbles in his stomach, but his efforts are fruitless.

He catches nothing with his eyes, which have cleared the bleariness of many years sleep, and that in itself lends him to the clue.

This thief is using magic.

How else could he conceal himself so well? Smaug's eyes can see the scratches on a coin from a mile away. The thief has seen his revelation, and stays silent. He decides some field observation must be done, and heaves himself from his resting place, almost cursing himself for not doing so earlier.

He knows exactly what is missing. A 211. 2 ounce trophy that is 18 karat gold and adorned with silver bands that hold a precious sapphire and 13 pearls, neatly and almost precisely wrapped around the length of the bowl portion. It was made roughly 78 years before he added it to his collection, and was at first a medal presented to the winner of some game, perhaps battle, as it had the soft, thoughtful and non-reproduced engravings of various matches that depicted dwarrows, some of which had recognizable traits from famous dwarrows in dwarven history. It was made here, as the insignia of a house of Durin, a curling longbeard of some well known smith, to commemorate winning first place in some tournament, but had been turned into a wine holder (the metal was almost flawlessly waxed, but the scent of a particular brand of alcohol was decreeable to his senses, from grapes he believed came from the orchards of Esgaroth, which he knew also made the wine that the mirkwoods elves were very fond of, or at least had been last he had been in the world), from the wine itself and the origin as well as basic knowledge of dwarf diet, he would assume it became wine holder for a grand celebration to which both Mirkwood elves and men of Esgaroth were likely invited, as dwarrows would have likely chosen mead or beer before wine, which means it was not something so simple as a common dwarven wedding or birthday. More likely the celebration was royal, perhaps the birthday of a prince or king. Unlikely that it would be a coronation, for they used the same royal set for that. Smaug thinks it's somewhere to his left, buried, like much of the more precious treasures. That is not important at the moment, however.

He also knew exactly where the chalice had been when he'd lay down to sleep, and made his way there… it is of course very very close to border of his gold piles, close to some small tunnels, although he knows the thief was lured to some other place by his charmspeak, and away from escape, he knows not where. Not important, right now.

Immediately the stench of both fear and thief increased, although it was older, not newer. He looked, and saw the place where the chalice had been moved, and a couple coins beside it, but no more. He wondered if the thief knew that he had learned of his magic, or perhaps suspected so. Perhaps he was still nearby, as he had had a limited amount of space available - back the way he had come, which Smaug did not see but smelled - fresh air swirled in the vicinity, although he could not place where it was from - or along the path to where he had taken and from there spoken to Smaug, upon which he was no doubt dumbstruck and still. The relatively untouched treasure meant that he had not gone through the gold and jewels itself - if it had been completely untouched, he might have thought the magic helped him in such a regard, too, but the slight disturbance of coins said very much otherwise. If he had continued through the gold, Smaug would have easily tracked him and killed him quicker than thought.

Oh but this was fun. Almost entertaining.

If only he hadn't been stupid enough to steal his gold, he might have liked this thief. Until he got bored and killed him, of course.

He wondered if the thief had run away - the silence was unbroken, but he was very sure he was blocking the way for return. The thief, sensing danger, might have ventured further in in hopes of losing Smaug that way, but that was cowardly, and frankly, idiotic. This thief did not initially inspire either of these traits. Except for the gold stealing bit, of course. That really was pure idiocy.

"Perhaps if you return the chalice now, I shall let you live" He crowed softly, layering his words with dragon charm. He waited for a reply, but was disappointed.

Except not really.

This thief would have been especially boring if he fell prey to such weakly charmed words. Of course, if he could meet his eyes, then the struggle of wills would get interesting.

"I won't kill you, I promise, just return the gold, and I'll let you run" he crooned, casting his eyes over the expanse of the gold around him - because even if he couldn't see the thief the thief could certainly see him, and the magic that protected him had almost certainly failed to ward off the charmspeak he had used earlier, so even if he looked over an unmoving mound of gold, if those eyes met these eyes for even the briefest of seconds…

"I suppose I knew when I agreed to this bloody adventure that I would end up dying." came the short whisper

Hmmm, not entirely what he had been hoping for, and the acoustics in here were not helpful in the least. Ah, well, he enjoyed a challenge.

"You won't if you just set the chalice back down, you know, I'll let you flee." He was pacing forward now, his tail guarding and blocking the way that the invisible creature had come from, eyes still shifting over the piles of treasure, hoping for an anomaly or a sign.

"They even said it would be dangerous, so I really should have known." came the weak reply.

Smaug suddenly realized that perhaps calling the thief a coward had been a bad play. "fleeing" and "running" did not appeal to the invisible creature, the magic was being used out of caution and intellect, not cowardice. And charmspeak worked best when the target accepted it to be true - such a comment rang false to the thief's heart, and that was not working in the way Smaug had anticipated.

He continued on his stroll through the halls, tail now stretched over the expanse of the area, still vainly trying to guard the place where now stale fresh air had come with the visitor. He was nearing his resting place, and had still not narrowed down the thief's position - for as he kept moving he had to keep the thief talking and calculate the echos in relation to his own moving body.

This was fun.

"They said it was dangerous, and yet here you are." He said curtly, hoping to appeal to the thief's daring and bravery.

There was a second of profound silence, silence that permeated the air and made him feel wretched - as if he had blundered in some horrific way. The worst part was that he had yet to know what he had done to so pathetically fail. He didn't like that, not at all. So he broke the silence, as he fervently hoped he would break the bones of the thief when he crunched on his burnt carcass. But he still had to catch him, and try to undo that error. "Just return the chalice, and you will go free."

The attempt floundered miserably, as he turned, too late, to feel the brief presence of something leap over his tail and into the darkness.

He knew the thief was lost before he registered that he couldn't see him.  
His scream of fury was nearly drowned out by the roar of the flame that rendered itself from his gaping maw, and that poured into the hall and made the piles of coin caught in it's wake glow like embers long after it had stop issuing from his mouth. The walls were scorched and nearly black, but that was hardly new - he did that when he was bored.

His foul mood was caused by the sudden aching loss that filled his chest.  
He knew this was how dragons felt upon losing some of their hoard, had experienced it briefly in past ages, and yet.

This time the sadness overpowered and drowned the fury like like a puttering flame.

Suddenly overcome, he collapsed back in his old spot, and fervently decided that the thief would return.

He wanted to think the thief would return because he had called him brilliant, and he awed him, but harshly reminded himself that it was simply because the stench of dwarf had been more pungent than the thief's own scent, to be honest, and dwarrows, if anything, could be relied on to pressure the poor creature into returning to reclaim their gold.

Well, he though, sending a brief spurt of flame from a nostril, failing to reclaim their gold.

Dwarrows loved treasure almost as much as dragons.


End file.
